I Always Come When You Call
by AlmightyOstrich
Summary: AU: Can love overcome the desire to destroy? When someone wrecks Dean's car and he takes a cab, he meets a weird driver - Castiel - who he can't bring himself to dislike. Dean thinks his violent days are behind him until he finds out his enemy from prison, Alastair, is now free and seeking revenge. [Violence, reference to sexual harassment, adult themes.] Destiel, Sabriel.
1. People I Might Never Meet Again

**Chapter 1 – People I Might Never Meet Again**

Dean slams the hood down.

He can't believe it. His baby is broken. Some bastard has bashed the hood in, sliced the tires and shattered the windows and tail lights. He heard some noise last night, but noise isn't unusual in the city and he hadn't thought much of it. And, in an unfortunate twist of fate, he hasn't been outside today and thus hasn't seen this shit until now.

The damage requires time and effort to fix and he doesn't have even a minute to spare right now. He needs to be there for Sammy.

His brother has invited pretty much everyone they know to dinner at his house to make an announcement. Dean knows what it is, because he kept prodding before and Sam couldn't keep it in – he and Gabriel have gotten engaged.

Dean needs to be there. He wants to be there, wants to hear everyone congratulate his baby brother on his happiness. Dean has felt responsible for watching out for Sammy all their lives and he isn't going to stop just because his brother has another person to lean on now.

But his car is fucking broken. He won't have time to fix it until the weekend, and tonight is a Thursday. Bobby can come pick him up for work tomorrow morning but tonight? No, that's not fair. Bobby is probably already there, and Dean is bordering on late.

"I'm sorry, baby." He runs his fingers along the now uneven hood.

That's when he notices something. It's an inverted cross, about the size of Dean's little finger, keyed into the car in the slope of one of the cavities. He's seen that symbol before. He knows who uses it as a signature. It's a tagline, always associated with destruction.

But Alastair is locked in. It has to be a coincidence. This has to be the work of some wannabe devil worshipping kids.

Dean shudders. Then he calls Sam.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, hi Sammy. Look, something's happened. The car's broken. I can't fix her up now. I don't know if I'm gonna make it."

"It's fine", says Sam calmly. "I'll call a cab for you. Got cash?"

"Yeah. But Sam, you know I can't-"

"I'll call right now."

"No, Sam, listen! You know I hate being in a car when someone else is driving."

Sam scoffs.

"I've driven you lots of times", he says.

"Yeah, well, you're different."

"Get over yourself, Dean. Suck it up. I'm calling a cab for you now."

With that, Sam hangs up and leaves Dean alone outside his apartment building, waiting for some strange person in an ugly ass car to show up and drive him while he sits there like some kind of hunting trophy. He's going to feel like a prostitute. Except he's the one that's paying. A reverse prostitute.

It's not that Dean needs to be in charge of everything that happens around him. He doesn't desperately crave to have everything his own way or for people to obey him. It's just that many people are very stupid and highly undeserving of trust on important matters. They take long routes, wrong turns, go too fast or too slow and who knows who might drive into the wrong freaking lane and get them killed? Dean doesn't need anyone to take him places. He can do it himself.

When his car isn't fucking broken.

Ten minutes later a taxi pulls up in front of him. The window slides down and a man leans over the seat and peeks out at him. The little lamp in the ceiling of the car illuminates his face. He has the bluest eyes Dean has ever seen, dark, a bit scruffy hair and some five o' clock shadow that really suits him. He looks kind but oddly intrusive at the same time.

"Dean Winchester?" he asks. His voice is low and husky, but not malevolent.

"Yes." Dean nods. "Great."

That last thing may have come out a tiny bit mean.

Dean gets into the car, straps on the seatbelt and sighs. He doesn't really care if the driver detects his resentment for the situation. The driver, however, doesn't seem bothered.

"Did my brother give you directions?" asks Dean.

"Yes", says the driver. "We should be there in about fifteen minutes."

"Alright."

* * *

The man starts talking to him when they're on the road.

"So, _Dean_", he says, emphasizing the name as if he were trying to get to know it, "your car broke down?"

"Yeah", says Dean. He thinks of the '67 Chevy Impala, his own gorgeous car that he inherited from his father, how much better she is than this one, and how much nicer it is when Dean is driving. "I would've fixed her right now if I could. I've never taken a cab before."

"Why not?"

"I prefer driving myself."

"I see." The man turns the car around a sharp corner, maneuvering perfectly without slowing down. "I hear there's this really good car repair shop on the outskirts of town. Singer's, I believe it's called. Perhaps you should have your car taken there."

The man sounds serious and ridiculously formal. Dean almost laughs.

"I work there", he says. "And I won't have time to fix her up 'til the weekend. It sucks."

The man doesn't reply. An awkward silence fills the car. It's uncomfortable and annoying and after a few minutes, Dean decides he can't take it anymore.

"Did you want to become a cab driver?"

It sounds much more rude than he intended, but the man doesn't seem to take offense.

"No", he says matter-of-factly.

Dean can't help but prod.

"So why did you?"

"I was looking for something, and… I ran away. I was young." The man struggles to hold back a smirk. "Then I realized I needed to get money for food and a place to live. This was the first job I found with sufficient pay, and here I am."

"But if this isn't what you want, why keep doing it?" asks Dean. He's growing genuinely curious in spite of himself.

The driver shrugs.

"I don't know what else I would do. Besides", he glances at Dean, "with this job I get the opportunity to talk to people I have never met before. People I might not have met otherwise." The car stops, neatly parked by the curb outside Sam's house. "People I might never meet again."

"How romantic", says Dean sarcastically. He unbuckles his seatbelt and is on his way out of the car when his jacket is grabbed from behind.

"You-"

"Hey!" Dean whirls around and seizes the cab driver's wrist, raising his free hand, ready to punch him in the face.

"Nice reflexes." The man smiles – a big, eye-crinkling, too close to contagious thing – and Dean stares. "I was just reminding you that you were forgetting to pay me."

"Oh." Dean glances down at his hand, knuckles going white from how tightly he's clutching the man's wrist. Somewhat awkwardly, he lets go. "Right. I'm not used to-"

"You do have money, don't you?" The driver raises his eyebrows.

"Of course." Dean digs a couple of bills out of his jeans pocket. "Here."

The man hands a few of the bills back to him.

"There. I'm not _that_ expensive."

"Huh. Well, uh… Bye, then." Dean gets out of the car.

"Have a nice evening", says the driver.

"Yeah, you too", says Dean.

Just as he closes the door he hears the man scoff and sees him smiling and shaking his head to himself. A warm anger ignites in Dean's stomach – is this dude making fun of him? In his own head, sure, and with no one else to hear, but still, Dean feels offended. That guy was weird. Dean doesn't ever want to see him again.

He turns around and walks up to the door of Sam's house, ringing the bell three times as he always does just because Sam hates it.

* * *

Castiel scoffs.

Nice evening, yeah, sure. As a taxi driver – a.k.a. chauffeur of the drunk and horny, henchman of the cheating, watcher of the fainting and vomiting – there is no such guarantee, even with well-meaning wishes ringing in the back of his mind.

He does love it when he gets to talk to people he hasn't met before. That's no lie, but it isn't all that often that he actually gets to do that. With the hours he works – irregular and changeable as they are – Castiel frequently gets the drunk and 'otherwise occupied' passengers in his backseat.

Yeah, most of them sit in the backseat. As far away from him as possible.

This Dean, while he may have been a bit blunt and stand-offish most of the time, had at least been in a state that allowed for communication. And actually, now that he thinks about it, it was the first real person-to-person interaction Castiel has had for months.

It saddens him a little that he is probably never going to see that face again.


	2. No Rest For The Drunk And Lonely

**Chapter 2 – No Rest for the Drunk and Lonely**

Dean stumbles over to Sam and supports himself with a hand on his shoulder. Sammy's drunk too, but he can still carry his weight without falling over.

"Hey Sammy, I'm gonna need the number to that…" Dean swallows a hiccup. "… Cab thing again. I need to get home."

"Home? But the party's just started!"

"Sam, it's past twelve, like two thirds of the guests have already left and I need- need to get up early tomorrow. Work."

"Oh." Sam takes out his phone. "Okay, I'll text you the number."

Sam isn't handy with a phone when he's not sober, so Dean gets the number no sooner than half a minute later.

He calls.

* * *

Twenty minutes later a cab pulls up in front of the house and honks twice. Dean says goodbye to Sam, who hugs him before he steps outside.

When he gets to the car, Dean recognizes the bright eyes peering out at him, and the humble smile he's already learned to be annoyed by.

"You again?" he slurs.

"Me again", says the driver.

Dean opens the door and stumbles in. He gives the driver a long look.

"You're not… stalking me, are you?"

The man chuckles.

"I'm a cab driver. I come when people call. I happened to be the closest car to you when you requested escort."

Dean furrows his eyebrows.

"You're a hooker?"

"What? No."

"Y-you said escort."

"How drunk are you?" It isn't really a question – more of a statement, spoken so gently it's hard to even act offended.

"Home", says Dean. "I'm going home."

"Where I picked you up from last time?"

"Yes." Dean points at the driver. "Precisely that spot."

The car starts and off they go.

"D-do you remember?" asks Dean after a little while. "Where you picked me up?"

"Yes."

"That is a good…" Dean smiles. "… Good quality, dude. Like, memorizing stuff. Like you can always use that in life, like… remembering stuff."

"Yeah", the driver grins. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. So did you have a good time?"

"Mhm, yeah", says Dean. "Just, like… I already knew everyone there so I couldn't hit on anyone. Like not even Jo would even flirt with me for fun. She'll do it with Sam just because he's gay and shit, like, committed, but _I'm _single and bi so _nooo_."

The driver fails to hold back a snort.

"It's weird, man", Dean continues. "My brother's getting fucking m… married. My little brother. And to a guy named after an _angel_. Isn't that weird?"

"Why would that be weird?" asks the driver.

Dean blinks.

"Which what one?"

"Why would it be weird for your brother to get married?" the man repeats patiently.

"Be-because we always just assumed we'd never find people because we're so fucked up", Dean stares at the road in front of him. "Our parents died when we were little and... just this shit all the fucking time after that, like psychologically, you know, we got through it but it just… Bobby was the best and he took great care of us but you don't forget seeing your home burn down, you know, with your parents inside. Sammy was always the-the more normal one I guess but I couldn't see either of us ever committing but man I'm happy for him, he deserves that, he- he's great, he's so much better than I am."

"How is he better than you?"

"Because I – let me tell you…" Dean puts a hand on the man's shoulder and leans in closer. "I am the literal. Worst."

"I've seen lesser men", says the driver. "Men who act worse when they're sober than you do drunk. I wouldn't worry about it."

"I'm not worrying", says Dean. "I'm fully ac…cepting my suckiness." He smirks. "And I'm pretty awesome in bed."

The man glances at him.

"Hey", says Dean, "I'm telling you all this shit and you haven't even told me your name. What's- what's your name, man?"

"Castiel", the driver smiles. "Like your brother's partner, I am named after an angel. A lesser known one, but still."

"Castiel?" Dean removes his hand from the man's shoulder and winces. "The fuck kinda name is that?"

Castiel shrugs.

"Don't ask me. I didn't choose it."

"Don't you have a nickname, like something more… casual, like-"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I guess not enough people have heard my name", says Castiel, somewhat quietly.

Dean snickers, ignorant of the sensitive tone in the other man's voice.

"Yeah, that- that makes sense", he says. "Well how 'bout I call you Cas? That's better. Rolls easy off the tongue. Cas." Dean smiles contentedly. "_Cas._"

"I like that", says Cas.

"_Cas._"

"Alright."

"_Caaaas._"

Cas chuckles.

"I think you've established it now."

* * *

"S-so what's bothering you?"

Castiel almost jumps in the seat. Dean has been quiet for several minutes and Castiel has been taking for granted that he, in his drunk state, was close to falling asleep.

"Nothing is bothering me", says Castiel.

Dean scoffs and punches his shoulder lightly.

"Of course it is. Dude, you're so uptight you could probably crack a melon under your armpit." Dean snickers at his own words. Castiel holds back the urge to roll his eyes. "Seriously, man", Dean continues, "like you barely even move when you laugh. I just told you my fucking life… story so I think you owe me some, don't you?"

"You're drunk. I'm not responsible for what you say", says Castiel. "And nothing is bothering me."

Dean holds up his hand.

"Fine whateveryousay", he mumbles. "But you're acting like someone who hasn't gotten laid in weeks."

Castiel silently curses himself, because he can feel the blood rushing to his head and he knows he's blushing. But Dean isn't looking at him – he's looking at the road – and they are only a minute away from his apartment building and their farewell.

When Castiel pulls over, Dean digs some bills out from his pocket and hands them to him. It's the right amount this time. Dean gets out, but just as he is about to close the door, leans back in.

"You're not so bad, man", he says. "For a cab guy… you're alright."

Castiel smiles.

"Thank you, Dean. Take care."

Dean closes the door and walks away. He turns around to wave and trips over his own feet when he spins, just barely avoiding a fall. He grins sheepishly and throws Castiel a two-finger salute before the cab drives away.


	3. Not Too Bad

**Author's note: _I have like, no idea how the cab-pick-up thing works when people call and, frankly, I was simply too lazy to look it up. I made up something I thought pretty credible - that people's calls go to a center where all the cabs' positions can be seen with the help of GPS trackers, and they send out a call of their own to the cabs in the nearest vicinity of the customer, and the first one to respond with a yes gets the customer. If this isn't how it's done, feel free to tell me but then, just... deal with it *puts on sunglasses* I made up this fictional town and that's how it works there. *drives off into the sunset*_**

**Chapter 3 – Not Too Bad**

Dean's head hurts.

He grunts when he climbs into Bobby's car, his hair a mess and a bit of stubble on his face. He gladly accepts the warm cup of coffee Bobby holds out to him.

"Thanks", he mumbles.

The Impala – with new tires – is attached to the back of the truck they're sitting in, ready to be towed to the place of every car's salvation.

"Didn't really think that through, did ya?" says Bobby, amused.

"What?"

"Getting that wasted on a work night." Bobby starts the car. "You almost got to the point where you go all feelings-whore and start spilling your thoughts all over the place."

"I think I got there." Dean sighs. "I vaguely remember a conversation with the cab driver." He takes a sip of coffee. "He was weird."

"I don't wanna know", Bobby winces. "The time you tried to pick up that guy on New Year's by telling him you had abs on your abs was enough for me."

Dean swallows too much coffee. It burns in his throat and he coughs and tries his best to glare at Bobby through the tears welling up in his eyes.

"Bobby, we _don't_ talk about that."

Bobby rolls his eyes.

* * *

As soon as he gets to Bobby's, Dean gets to work on a battered old jeep.

Work helps him concentrate when everything else is slipping through his fingers. Time, life, relationships – everything is just messed up in Dean's life right now. He hadn't realized how much until recently, what with Sam about to get married and all. Sammy's getting it all together, going forward, creating a real life for himself, and Dean is just in the same place he's always been. He doesn't even know what he wants. He knows he doesn't want his life to be like this forever, working most days, drinking a little too often and not having much of a friend circle beside his brother.

How come everything is working out for Sam and not for him? Maybe he doesn't deserve it.

Dean is genuinely happy for Sam, but he can't help but wonder why it is that their lives have taken such different turns since high school. Sam went to college, Dean never even considered it. Sam became a lawyer, Dean started working at Bobby's. Sam met Gabriel, Dean was alone.

Loneliness doesn't bother Dean all that much, though. Sometimes he even enjoys it. It's never been hard for him to go to a bar and pick someone up if he wants to spend the night in the company of another human being. And it's not like he's completely alone – he's got Sam, Bobby, Ellen, Jo and Charlie. And Gabriel, even if Dean has been a bit wary of him ever since he put itching powder on Dean's towel last summer one of the few times Dean agreed to go to the beach.

Still, sometimes, when Dean looks at other people and sees what they have with each other – that unquestioned, profound and seemingly unbreakable bond – he wishes he had that, too. He has never had that. He tried once, but it didn't last long and it was his fault that it went to shit. Truth be told, he doesn't think he ever will have someone like that. He's not cut out for it, not after what he's been through, after what he's done. Who would want to be with someone like him? Someone who spent a year in jail? Someone who did things so disgraceful it's a wonder his brother still talks to him? Someone who uses alcohol as a temporary solution and can't open up properly because building mental walls is all he's ever learned to do? Dean is fucked up in so many ways, it would take someone equally twisted and at the same time eternally patient to take a look at him and think 'I don't ever want to let this person go'.

* * *

Bobby comes to him in the afternoon.

Dean is using a cloth to wipe some grease from his forehead, gazing at the third car he's finished fixing up that day.

It is time for him to finish now, to go home, cook dinner and watch something pointless on TV before going to sleep. Tomorrow he will fix up his baby. Now Bobby is going to drive him home.

"Hey Dean, I can't drive you 'cause Ellen needs me to help in the kitchen. There's a party booked for tonight and Jo went to that Adam's house instead of doing her chores." Bobby speaks in one long string of words, as if there is no chance Dean will object. "Boy, is she gonna hear it when she gets home."

Bobby is a grumpy old bastard, but he loves his family more than anything else and everyone knows that. He is a good father for the three kids he has adopted – Sam, Dean and later on Jo, when he married Ellen a couple of years ago.

Dean sighs and drops the cloth to the floor.

"So I'll just take one of your cars?"

"Unfortunately not", says Bobby. "Ellen has one over at the Roadhouse, Jo took the other, and I need the truck to get to Ellen. Just get a cab or somethin'. Tell you what…" Bobby walks up to him, digging in his pocket and handing over a few bills. "… My treat."

Dean purses his lips.

"Bobby, no", he objects. "I'll just call Sam or something."

"This ain't exactly gonna ruin my economy", Bobby scoffs. "Let your brother have this day free from family duties, get over yourself, and take a fuckin' cab."

Without another word, Dean snatches the money and shoots Bobby a glare they both know is just out of principle.

"Fine", he mutters. "But I'm counting on you to ground Jo for this."

"That's none of your business, boy", said Bobby. "I'll see ya tomorrow."

"Tell Ellen I said hello."

Bobby nods and waves dismissively as he walks out from the garage.

"And tell Jo I said fuck you!" Dean shouts after him, but he's already gone.

"Fuck you so much Jo", Dean mutters as he takes a look at the text Sam sent him last night with the number to the taxi service. He taps the number to call it, glancing at the Impala behind him as he reluctantly brings the phone to his ear. "Life sucks without you, baby."

* * *

Castiel jumps at the sound of the radio crackling.

Having finished a late lunch and with nothing better to do, he has been sitting quietly for the past twenty minutes. It is a habit he knows makes people think him strange.

But now there's a call coming in.

"_Attention. Client at Singer's Salvage Yard. Can number five take it?'_

Castiel perks up. Singer's Salvage Yard. That's where that guy Dean works.

He presses the button and leans forward to speak into the radio.

"Number five will take it."

"_Good. Copy that._"

Castiel doesn't know why he's excited when he buckles his belt and drives off. All he knows is that in a few minutes he will see Dean again, and Dean sits in the front seat and talks to him. At least when he's drunk. Castiel briefly wonders if Dean remembers how much of his life story he shared last night.

Perhaps, Castiel thinks, it is for the better if he doesn't. He doesn't seem like the sharing type.

It takes Castiel about two minutes to realize that whoever called for a cab might not be Dean Winchester. It could be anyone who wants to go home or to town while their car is getting fixed.

Castiel grips the wheel tighter. He will not go as far as to say he likes Dean. He enjoys the guy's company, that's all. He enjoys talking to someone who answers without reacting to him like he's a piece of gum on the underside of a table. If that someone happens to be a little bit very much attractive and kind of a really interesting person, that has nothing to do with it.

Another three minutes pass before he finally rounds a corner and sees Singer's Salvage Yard and a man standing on the side of the road.

It's Dean.

Castiel pulls over in front of him and leans over to smile at him through the window. For a moment, Dean frowns, surprised and puzzled. Then he gets in the car.

"Hello, Dean", says Castiel.

"You again, huh?" says Dean as he buckles his seatbelt. He doesn't sound happy.

The smile fades from Castiel's lips and he nods, turning friendly into professional.

"Me again. At least I have a fair guess where you are going. Home?"

"Yep", says Dean. "I was stood up by my ride."

* * *

Singer's Salvage yard is on the outskirts of town, and though Dean doesn't really live in the center it takes a little over thirty minutes to get there.

Castiel has to refrain from cracking a smug smile at how Dean seems to be losing his internal struggle to act chilly, because five minutes into the ride he starts talking.

"So uh… How've you been?"

"Oh, good, good", says Castiel. "How about you?"

"Kinda tired." Dean runs a hand through his hair. "Listen, do you… Did I, like… What did I say to you last night?"

"You don't remember?"

"It's a little fuzzy. I just want to know if my mind is making it up or if I actually said what I think I said."

Castiel smiles, staring determinedly at the road ahead of him.

"Well, you talked about your brother who's getting married, about why you had not thought either you or him ever would, you expressed a fair bit of self-loathing… And then you nicknamed me 'Cas'."

Dean scratches the back of his neck.

"Uh-huh. And did it involve me word-vomiting the story of my childhood?"

Castiel holds back a laugh. It doesn't seem appropriate, with Dean so flustered, to express that kind of amusement.

"Yes", he says simply.

"Oh man." Dean sighs. "That's comforting", he says sarcastically, "to know I'll tell my life story to a complete fucking stranger if I just get a little drunk."

"I don't know if I would refer to it as 'a little'", says Castiel, letting go of the wheel for a second to make quotation marks in the air with his fingers. "However, there is no need to worry. You are not unique in that aspect. Sometimes people just need a listening ear, and a mouth that won't repeat what it heard."

Castiel notices the corners of Dean's mouth twitching upward and feels very satisfied at that.

"I guess it's pretty much included in the job description for cab drivers, huh?" says Dean.

"More or less, yeah." Castiel shrugs. "It's understood. Although, between you and me", he glances at Dean, who looks curious, "I find that most of my so-called co-workers – although we don't exactly work _together_ – will spill just about everything they've heard over a cup of coffee back at the garage." He frowns. "I think that's highly disrespectful."

"So you would never do that?" asks Dean. Castiel thinks there might be a hint of concern in his voice, as if he really does care about the answer.

Castiel shakes his head.

"Never. No need to worry. Actually, I'm so anti-social I hardly speak to any of them."

He says it in such a way and with such an expression – disgusted, as if he were talking about everything he hates about his least favorite food – that it draws a laugh from Dean. He throws his head back, shoulders shaking and the corners of his eyes crinkling, and Castiel can't help but smile.

"Well they sound like jerks anyway", says Dean when he regains his composure.

"No", Castiel turns his head to look at Dean, still smiling. "Just human."

Dean's eyes linger on him for a moment – wide, clear and incredibly green, eyebrows curving slightly upward as if wondering what Castiel meant.

"I mean…" Castiel nervously loosens and tightens his grip around the wheel. His hands are starting to sweat slightly and he mentally curses himself for allowing it, as if he has any say in the matter. "People. You know. Can be self-centered."

"Yeah." Dean turns his eyes back to the road. "Yeah, they can…"

The silence that follows is not the least bit comfortable.

* * *

"So, your car", says Castiel after a few minutes, his voice just a little too loud, "what kind is it?"

"What 'kind'?" Dean scoffs, raising an eyebrow at him. The way he said it, it's obvious the man is wandering into a subject he doesn't know jack shit about.

"Yes, what kind of car is it?"

"Would you know if I told you?"

"Perhaps", says the driver. Well, he has a name. Castiel. Dean remembers it because it's fucked up. "Perhaps not. But you can tell me anyway."

"A '67 Chevrolet Impala."

Castiel doesn't answer, just stares at the road with eyes that suggest he is digging hopelessly through a mental archive of cars which includes nothing but the words Jeep, Jaguar and Mercedes. Dean realizes, hardly surprised, that he will have to describe this most treasured belonging in another way if Castiel is ever going to understand.

"She used to be my Dad's", he says. "She's all black except a silver line along the side. Roars like a lion. Never fails me, my baby."

"I thought you said it- She-" Dean smiles when Castiel corrects himself. "-Was broken?"

Dean pouts and frowns jokingly.

"That's not her fault. Some shitty kids beat her up."

"Will you be able to fix her?"

"Of course", says Dean, a tone of mock offense in his voice. "I'll work on her tomorrow. She'll be as good as new by the afternoon. And then, no more cabs." Just as it comes out of his mouth he realizes how mean it sounds. "I mean I- Then I'll be able to take a ride in her again and I've missed that. Not, uh…"

"It's okay, I know what you mean", says Castiel, but the way his brow furrows slightly tells a different story. "I do not like taking cabs either. Fortunately I never have to."

It's there, the opportunity to change the subject – but Dean decides against it. For once he's going to go through with something and get it right. Castiel is only doing his job, and he's nice, too. Dean doesn't want him to feel bad.

"Hey, I really didn't mean it like that", he says. "You're cool. I like you. I mean, you're not too bad. You've, uh… You've surprised me."

Dean sees Castiel suppressing a smile before turning his head to look at him.

He never noticed before how blue Castiel's eyes really are. They look like the night sky behind countless stars, a deep, dark pit holding a vast sea of knowledge, and waves, forces of nature not to be reckoned with by those who hold sanity dear to their hearts. It's almost like he's seen thousands of years of history and not stepped on a single ant along the way even though he could move mountains with a flick of his wrist, like he could tear your soul apart and put it back together if he wanted to. Dean has never felt like he understands so little about a person whose whole soul still shines through his eyes, bare and unshielded. He has never felt so small in someone's presence, and rarely has he felt more acknowledged.

Dean shakes it off. He must have had a drink earlier that he doesn't remember. He must be a little intoxicated. There's no way his sober brain would stir up those words to describe the features of anything, not even his car.


	4. Attachments Clip Your Wings

**Chapter 4 – Attachments Clip Your Wings**

Don't get attached – that's what his father used to say. Well, before he left.

Don't get attached. Not to the people you work with, not to your neighbors – don't even get too attached to your friends. Because, his father used to say, if you get attached, you won't be able to do think clearly, objectively, and you won't be able to do what you came to do. You won't be able to get what you want. Never let your emotions get the better of you or else you are sure to fail.

Objective thinking and acute professionalism is what Castiel has been raised on. Even when it comes to his private life, he knows little else. It's his defense, just as it was his father's.

His father was an artist. He painted to create worlds of his own, but spent so much time with his head in the clouds that his family came to suffer. Castiel's mother, a young woman with dreams of her own, left when her husband quit his day job to work on his paintings. He sold one every now and then, giving Castiel and his siblings the occasional wave of wealth that always eventually passed and left them eating cheap noodles and working two extra jobs all through high school.

Don't get attached, his father used to say. Not to him either, apparently.

Despite his unrealistic expectations and for all his faults, Castiel's father had been loved by his children. They had admired him. He had a way of speaking that made every word seem like the most important thing in the universe. When he left it was a hard blow on all of them. Castiel went to look for him, leaving the angry calls of his brothers and sisters in his wake. They said they didn't need their dad and that a search for him could only fail. Castiel had disagreed.

That was, of course, before he learned how much he could do on his own. The only problem was that he didn't know anything about how to relate to the world except what his father had taught him, which was objectivity and distance. Get the work done. As if work was all there was to life, a noble calling from the depths of the soul.

Castiel hasn't experienced such a calling after failing to find his father. The man really had a knack for disappearing off the surface of the earth.

Castiel accepts that his father has betrayed his children and is never going to come back. He keeps only one thing from the man, and it is the ingrained instinct to keep his composure and distance at all times. The words ring through his head – not a voice, because he has forgotten what his father used to sound like, but he will never forget the words:

_Attachments clip your wings, son. Don't get attached._

That's why Castiel feels so strange when he finds himself not wanting this car ride to end.

This guy Dean is, objectively, nothing out of the ordinary. He is a conventionally good-looking guy – bright green eyes, Greek statue face and all that – and so of course he's also a borderline douchebag. Castiel has met many douchebags in his life, many far worse than Dean. He's even crushed on a few, but a douchebag is a douchebag and Castiel has never had the enchanting ability to make them want to change. He has learned that his father was right when he said attachments clip your wings. Attachments hurt, because people always leave. Castiel isn't sure whether it has more to do with the people or with him.

He tends to think it's the latter.

The fact that this one good-looking borderline douchebag seems to care is creating a problem. No one has really cared about Castiel since he was eleven years old and got beat up by some older boys in school and one of his brothers stayed up with him the whole night planning an intricate prank to get back at them. No one has seemed to care since then except Dean, and Castiel can feel himself wanting to reach out to Dean, to touch his heart somehow, to make an impression. It's like the feathers of Castiel's metaphorical wings are being held between a pair of scissors.

Dean opened up to him – Castiel decides it still counts even though he was drunk – and even now, the next day, he sits in the front seat and talks. Dean doesn't treat Castiel like an angel, but he treats him like a person. It's been a long time since Castiel fell under someone's gaze as a human being or anything other than a service. He likes being looked at like he actually has thoughts and memories. And it was kind of sweet of Dean to give him a nickname, even if the reason for it was that he thought his full name was strange.

But Castiel will never see Dean again after this ride and that is how it should be. If he did, he might actually form the attachments he can feel sprouting in his mind – bonds that wouldn't even be there.

Castiel clenches his teeth and drives on.


	5. Echoes Of The Past

**Chapter 5 – Echoes of the Past**

They make small talk all the way to Dean's apartment building. Castiel thinks this must be similar to what friends do. He's never really had a friend, but back when he was still in contact with his family Castiel would sometimes talk like this with his brothers and sisters.

When Castiel pulls up outside Dean's building and stops the engine, silence fills the air around them. Dean hands him the money – five dollars more than necessary – looks at him and nods once.

"Thanks for the ride", he says.

Something flutters in Castiel's stomach, but he pushes it down. It's stupid.

"You're welcome", Castiel replies. "Have a good evening. And good luck with your car."

Dean flashes a quick smile before opening the door and slipping out.

"Bye, Cas!"

And just like that, he's gone. Dean is inside with the door closed behind him before Castiel has much time to process the fact that he's leaving at all.

Castiel sighs. He puts the money away, fixes the twisted belt in the shotgun seat and pretends to wipe off the radio display. He moves slowly, absent-mindedly, fiddling with things and taking three extra looks at everything so he won't have to leave so soon.

He contemplates going to Singer's Salvage Yard in a few days. He considers doing something to break the cab he drives and offering to pay for the damage and go get it fixed himself, but he's sure the company would insist on him going somewhere more central than Singer's. He even thinks about the idea of buying a cheap, half-broken car and paying to get it restored, but he knows he can't afford that.

He wants to go out for a drink with Dean, but he can't ask. It's too late now anyway, and even if he had asked or if he ever sees Dean again, he doubts Dean would accept.

_Don't get attached._

Castiel fears he has gone beyond that point already and the words no longer serve as a cautionary tale, just an echo shouting at him from the past. Of course, there's also the question of how much one should heed the advice of an eccentric artist who took off and left his kids on their own.

He sits there in the cab as if time stays frozen if he doesn't move. After a few minutes he decides to stand outside, get some fresh air and stretch his legs before pulling himself together and driving away.

Castiel closes the door and leans on it, hands stuffed in the pockets of his black pants.

He grew up where the stars were countless. Here the sky is dreadfully empty. Castiel doesn't think he will ever get used to that bottomless black pit gaping at him, taunting him with its nothingness.

Suddenly there's a sound. Footsteps. Castiel tears his eyes away from the sky and looks around. A man with a gray hood and his hands in his pockets is about to walk past a few feet away from him. Castiel's attention sharpens. It's not late, but getting dark, as fall is approaching, and hooded people who walk past in the dark between tall buildings should be kept an eye on. Castiel knows he should get in the car and drive away right now, just in case, because there is no one else around and he has nothing to defend himself with, but he doesn't, because since when is every hooded person who's walked past him a thief or a malevolent thug? Castiel likes to give people the benefit of the doubt.

The hooded man stops. He turns his head and looks at Castiel, who still can't properly see his face through the shadows.

"Hey, you taking customers?" asks the man.

Castiel pulls his hands out of his pockets.

"Yes", he says. "Where do you want to go?"

"I was thinking downtown", says the man, now approaching.

He is closer now. Without warning, without Castiel noticing a single flinch beforehand, the man lunges at him and presses him up against the car. A knife grazes against Castiel's throat, not drawing blood but close enough to keep him still. Castiel freezes, holds his breath.

"How about you give me your wallet?"

Castiel thinks of disarming the man. He would be able to if there wasn't a sharp blade threatening to slice open his windpipe if he moves at all. One flinch and he could be dead.

* * *

Dean throws his grease-stained shirt across the room and walks over to a window in the living room. He opens it to let some air in, then goes to the bathroom to wash up. When he's done he goes to close the window, and when he does, he ceases his movements with one hand on the handle. His eyes dart down to the street five stories below him, and he sees a car. It's the cab. It's still there. Castiel is leaning against the closed door to the driver's seat, looking up. He isn't looking at the building, but Dean still shuffles a little to the side in order not to be seen.

Why isn't he driving away?

Some guy passes by. He approaches Castiel.

What Dean sees next sends a shiver down his spine. The man is attacking him.

For a second, Dean just stares at the scene playing out below him. Then he whips around, dashes out and runs down the stairs so fast he almost slips in every turn. He bursts through the front door and charges forward – not a shout, not a grunt, no roar of anger, just a cold stare and nerves itching to feel bones crack in his grip.

Castiel is a good person. Only real assholes hurt good people.

"Your wallet, _now!_" Dean hears the man spit out.

The hooded man turns away from Castiel only when Dean is close enough to reach out and grab him, at which point the man makes a go for Dean's midsection with the knife. Dean catches the man's wrist and twists it. Something snaps. The man shouts in pain, drops the knife and falls to his knees. Dean grabs him by the collar and yanks him up. Castiel moves and Dean pushes the man up against the car door, hands shifting from the man's collar to his throat. The man's functioning hand grips at Dean's forearm, but there is nothing he can do. Dean is bigger and stronger.

"You son of a bitch", growls Dean, "I ought to rip out your throat!" Dean squeezes. The man gasps. "You want that? Huh? Want me to take a little chew at your windpipe?"

* * *

Castiel watches in shock as Dean has the man in a chokehold and, despite the hoarse gasps and the desperate grip at his arm, doesn't let go.

He sees the corners of Dean's mouth twitch upward when he threatens the man a second time.

"You want that? Huh? Want me to take a little chew at your windpipe?"

His voice is deep, growling, and his eyes are staring with incredible intensity. It's like Dean has been transformed into a predator, a hunter of a fierce, bloodthirsty kind, and the man is a shivering rabbit trapped in the grip of his claws.

The man's gasps are becoming more wheezing and his eyes – visible since the hood has slipped off the top of his head – are wide and panicked. He is seriously struggling to breathe.

"Dean", says Castiel.

Dean gives him a quick look as proof of acknowledgement before returning his gaze to the man in his grip.

"Let him go."

Dean seems to pause for a second. Then he loosens his grip around the man's throat.

"I know your face now", he says with a low voice. "Don't ever come near this place again. Or him", he adds, nodding towards Castiel. "If I see you, I'll break your legs."

He grabs the man by the collar again and spins around with him before pushing him away, sending him stumbling backwards. The man pulls up his hood with his working hand and runs away. Within seconds he's out of sight and earshot.

Dean turns to Castiel. The predatory glare in his eyes is gone. There is now only concern and worry written across his face.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Thank you." Castiel exhales slowly.

"Come on", says Dean, approaching him, putting a hand on his shoulder and guiding him towards the front door of the building. "I'll get you a drink."

Castiel turns back to the car, pulls out the key from the front seat and presses the button. The car locks with a _wopp-wopp _and a blink of the lights.

When Castiel returns to his side, Dean pats him on the back and lays an arm across his shoulders. Castiel would never admit it, but the gesture is comforting.

He hasn't thought about it until now but Dean is shirtless. And it's not bad. His abs are not extremely cut out but well visible, there's the smooth line of hip bones sticking out above his belt, his chest is well-muscled and his collarbones forged like delicate parts of a statue. He must be noticing the way Castiel is ogling him because he clears his throat and pulls back, creating distance between them as he holds up the door.

In the elevator, he turns to Castiel again.

"You ever been through anything like that before?"

"Well…" says Castiel. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Dean's concern is touching, but Castiel really is alright. He is shaken, but not in the sense that he will lie awake all night and have nightmares when he finally does fall asleep. He has always been able to deal well with things like this. He was followed and beaten up several times in middle school and even a few times in high school, living under constant teasing because of his lack of social skills, his penchant for good literature, and of course because of the fact that he was openly bisexual. He would come home with cuts and bruises, sometimes inflicted by punches and kicks and sometimes by things thrown at him. Sometimes the wounds were more mental than of physical. Through all of it, Castiel survived and went on with an inner coolness he isn't sure from where he got. This thing, tonight, while serving as a good cautionary tale and being something he surely won't forget, is not something that will gnaw at him for a long time, speaking from experience.

Dean's apartment is surprisingly neat. Judging from how unfiltered he is with his words Castiel has assumed Dean would be just as careless with his home, but that is obviously not the case. The floor is clean save a greasy t-shirt – the one Dean is now lacking – thrown in a corner. The room they step into – a living room separated from the kitchen by a counter – is spacious not because it's big but because it's sparsely decorated. There's a black couch and a glass table standing on a fuzzy white carpet, a reasonably sized TV placed on a low wooden drawer and, along the adjacent wall, next to a window, three bookshelves, two of which contain more trinkets and movies than books, and a lot of old magazines. The walls are white and empty except for above the TV, where hangs a big, framed picture of a shiny black car with a silver line along the side.

"Nice place", says Castiel, knowing it's a polite thing to say.

* * *

"Thanks", says Dean, brushing past Castiel into the kitchen to get some beer from the refrigerator. He cracks the bottles open against the edge of the counter and hands one to Castiel, leaving the other standing next to the sink. "I'll just go get a shirt."

Dean knows he isn't bad to look at and would normally quite enjoy showing himself off, but there's something about Castiel's gaze that makes him feel so carefully watched that he wants to cover up with all the layers he can find.

Castiel nods in response.

"I am just going to call the police and tell them about the incident. Perhaps they can find that guy before he hurts someone else."

"Yeah, 'course", says Dean. "Maybe just not mention that I, you know", he waves his hand in the air dismissively, "busted his hand."

Castiel nods again.

Dean heads past the kitchen into his bedroom. He rummages through a drawer and pulls out a black t-shirt and a green and white plaid shirt that he puts on. He tries to smooth down his hair – an effort made in vain – and checks himself out in the full-body mirror next to the drawer.

It'll have to do.

Dean hadn't given the police a single thought before Castiel mentioned them. A year behind bars taught Dean to fend for himself. Authorities weren't much help in prison.

It's hard to get that mindset out of your head when a situation comes along that reminds you of a time when you had to constantly be on guard and ready to fight. It's easy to slip back into it – easier than Dean would have liked to believe. Before a few minutes ago, before he felt that urge to snap a bone in two and draw warm blood from skin, Dean wouldn't have thought he still had it in him, not that close to the surface. It scares him. He has lost control before. If it's still in him, what's to say he won't do it again?


	6. To Hell With It, I Want Your Lips

**Chapter 6 - To Hell With It, I Want Your Lips**

Dean comes back into the living room to find Castiel leaning against the kitchen isle, phone in his hand and bottleneck by his lips, swallowing down three times before looking at Dean and bringing the bottle away from his mouth. His figure is lean but strong, his tucked in white button-up shirt hinting of a thin waist above narrow hips. The eyes that fall on Dean look kind, but tired. There are bags under them that Dean didn't notice before.

"You alright?"

"Do you have a phone charger?"

They speak at the same time. Dean laughs at the awkward silence that follows, Castiel still looking at him with a blank expression.

"You first", says Dean.

"I was just wondering if I could borrow a phone charger." Castiel waves at Dean with his iPhone. "It's dying."

"Well, we can't have that", says Dean. "Four or five?"

"Four."

Dean walks over to a bookshelf and takes a charger from a small box. He has one for both the four and five, since Sam has a five and comes to visit too often to remember to bring his own charger.

Dean plugs it into an outlet next to the shelf. Castiel comes over and plugs his phone in.

"Thank you."

"No charge, man."

Castiel laughs. The pun wasn't intended but Dean doesn't mind letting Castiel think it was, so he smiles.

"So did you call the police?" asks Dean.

"Yes", says Castiel. "You were in there for quite a while. Do you always take such a long time to put on a shirt?"

There's a hint of a smirk on Castiel's face and Dean turns red and wants to punch him, or anything to wipe that smugness off his face.

"Shut up", is all that comes out.

Castiel chuckles.

"As you wish."

It isn't until right now that Dean notices how close they're standing. He backs away, clears his throat and gestures towards the couch.

"Have a seat if you want. Make yourself at home."

Castiel sits down while Dean goes to get his own beer from the kitchen counter. Bottle in hand, he plops down next to Castiel – a little closer than he'd intended but it's okay – turns his whole body to him, and fixes him with a look sharp as a needle.

"You sure you're alright?"

Castiel furrows his eyebrows.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You just got attacked, man. Don't tell me that doesn't affect you. It's okay to be upset or whatever." Dean gestures around them with one hand. "Safe space."

"Thank you." Castiel smiles softly. "But I am fine. This isn't, as you would say, my first rodeo."

"What?"

"I…" Castiel suddenly looks away, fingers fiddling with the bottle in his hands. "I won't bother you with my sob story. Should we watch TV?"

Castiel reaches for the remote on the table but Dean stops him, grabbing his wrist and gently placing it back in his lap.

"Uh-uh. Not until you tell me what's bothering you."

Castiel looks at him incredulously. Dean stares back, refusing to let his eyes dart away.

"Why do you care?" asks Castiel.

Dean purses his lips slightly and frowns.

"Why wouldn't I care? I'm a nice guy, aren't I?"

"No offense", Castiel smirks, "but are you really sure about that?"

Dean frowns even more.

"Fine, if that's the way you want it", he says with mock irritation. "_You're_ a nice guy. You don't deserve to be, uh... troubled."

He almost winces at the last word. The whole sentence sounds like something Sam would say, sappy, chick-flicky and terribly embarrassing.

Castiel scoffs.

"Very well. If you really want to hear, I suppose I can tell you my story."

Dean suddenly stills, careful, as if he's reached something very precious and fragile. He nods slowly. He parts his lips when he remembers to breathe, puts the beer bottle on the table – still not looking away from Castiel – and spreads one arm across the back of the couch, opening up his posture just a little more than he's actually comfortable with because he wants Castiel to feel acknowledged.

"Talk to me."

Castiel fixes his gaze on his knees.

"I grew up in a family with lots of children", he says. "There was my oldest brother Michael, my oldest sister Naomi, then Balthazar, Raphael and Uriel who are adopted, and Lou and Gabriel, and Anna, who's adopted too. I'm only older than Anna. My mother left us when I was very young, angry with my father when he decided to quit his job to pursue an independent career in art. My parents were religious, hence the weird names. Are you bored yet?"

"Cut that out." Dean shoves Castiel's shoulder.

"Fine", Castiel smiles, but it soon falls away and his face returns to seriousness, his mouth a sharp line and his eyes solemn and deep. "Our father could be… distant, from time to time. More often than not. But when he said something it was highly significant and we all listened to him. We would have done anything he told us to but he didn't have many commands except the usual 'behave', 'do your homework', 'don't do drugs' thing. Still, Lou thought it necessary to rebel." Castiel huffs. "Dad kicked him out as soon as he turned eighteen. Lou says he moved out, of course." The pointed look Castiel gives him makes Dean snicker. He knows about stubborn brothers. "In middle and high school, I was, uh, bullied, I guess. But I had friends among my siblings. I wasn't always sad or alone. There were just some guys that used to beat me up."

Dean's eyes widen.

"Why would anyone want to beat you up? I mean, you don't exactly look weak."

"I wasn't", says Castiel. "But I was just one person and they were usually four. And they often had the element of surprise."

"But why did they choose to pick on you? Your name? There _must _have been easier targets, there's always a nerd somewhere you can-" Dean stops himself, reminded by the disapproving look on Castiel's face what he was actually about to say.

Dean had his fair share of teasing thrown at him when he was a kid. Mother's day was hell in preschool. Even in middle school there were kids that would pick on him and Sam for not having their biological parents alive. So he knows what it's like to be the subject of ridicule. It's just that mindset that was so easy to slip into in prison, where you differentiate fiercely between the strong and the weak, the useful and useless. Sam has called him out on it several times. Really, Dean doesn't mean to be like that. It just happens. A part of him is still ruthless – and he doesn't like it.

"I liked to read", says Castiel, obviously choosing to ignore Dean's almost-mistake. He licks his lips. "And it _might _have had something to do with the fact that they'd overheard me talking about this guy…"

Dean raises his eyebrows and Castiel smiles coyly, looking down. He bites his lower lip as he raises his head to look at Dean again.

"What?" Dean tries hard not to look at Cas' mouth.

"You don't get it?"

Dean shakes his head. Castiel laughs at him.

"What's so funny?" Dean frowns.

"You're cute", says Castiel, but it sounds more condescending than complimenting. "I'm bi. And that wasn't exactly popular with those guys."

Dean stares at the man in front of him. Short cut, dark brown hair, slight stubble, full lips, skinny waist, slender hands, and he's bi. Interesting. That is _very_ interesting. Dean suddenly feels even more self-conscious than before.

"That sucks", he says, switching to sit farther in on the couch, closer to the backrest. Castiel's eyes dart over his face.

"Well. That's life." Castiel shrugs. "When I was just about to finish high school my father left us. He just took off. When I finished school a couple of months later, I went to search for him. Not a trace." He sighs. "I had a disagreement with my brothers and sisters when I left. They didn't think I should look for our father. Gabriel didn't want us to fight but that didn't change anything with them. So I haven't talked to anyone since."

"Man…" Dean doesn't know what to say so he tries his best at a sympathetic smile.

"That's why I'm fine", says Castiel. "I'm used to having shit thrown in my face. I'll be alright. But thank you, Dean, for caring."

There's something about the way Castiel says Dean's name that makes it feel like they've known each other for years. Dean doesn't know what to take from that, but he doesn't mind it.

"Of course, Cas", he says, grabbing his beer bottle from the table and taking a swig from it. He gives Castiel a pat on the chest meant to be supportive. "That's what friends are for, isn't it?"

It's a chance, he knows, to blurt it out like that. But Castiel just smiles calmly and takes a sip of his own beer.

"I suppose it is."

* * *

There's nothing but golf and romantic comedies on TV, so they just talk. And, well, drink. Dean brings out scotch and more beer as the hours go on.

When they've been talking for god knows how long about this and that and even Dean's life story has been mentioned again, Castiel proposes they watch something anyway. Dean is quick to grab the remote.

"Maybe I've taped something", he says. He tapes a lot of car shows and cooking competitions. Hell's Kitchen is one of his favorites – lots of swearing and lots of good food. What Dean has temporarily forgotten, though, is that those aren't the only shows he tapes. He almost spits his beer across the table when he flicks into the list of taped programs and sees it.

Castiel looks at him with raised eyebrows.

"'Doctor Sexy M.D?'"

"Oh it's uh… It's… plastic surgery. Sam taped it when he was here. My brother. So gay. No offense."

"You're as gay as I am!" Castiel laughs. Dean looks at him incredulously.

"I told you that?" he asks.

"You did indeed", says Castiel. "But back to the subject: it's not plastic surgery."

"Yes it is", says Dean.

"No, it isn't."

Castiel reaches over to grab the remote. Dean switches hands. Castiel stretches over his lap. Dean leans back, head hanging over the left armrest of the couch as he throws his arms up above his head to keep the remote as far away from Castiel as possible. Castiel follows, climbing on top of him and straddling his thighs. Castiel seems so unembarrassed by the physical contact that it's almost irritating.

"Dean, I know what it is", Castiel laughs, and it's not until then that Dean realizes how close their faces are. Castiel's jawline, sharp and strong but beautifully rounded, is just inches away as he looks up at and reaches for the remote in Dean's hands. He gets a hold of Dean's lower arm and tugs at it. It doesn't make much of a difference except in the way his body moves against Dean's with each pull.

Dean tries his best not to get hard.

He is too damn competitive to just give Castiel the remote, but if the guy notices what's happening below his waist he's so screwed.

"Give me the remote!" Castiel is laughing soundlessly, grinning as he aligns himself on top of Dean to reach farther. Dean tightens his grip on the remote.

He likes Castiel, he does. Dean isn't usually one to warm up quickly to new people, but he feels like he can trust this guy. Cas is gentle and smart and while he kind of acts a bit odd as if he doesn't fully understand how to do social interaction, he's articulate and honest and has a good sense of humor. He listens. It feels good to talk to him. Safe.

But there's a difference between liking and _like_ liking someone. Not to mention Dean actually hasn't known the dude for more than two days – if you can even say you 'know' someone you just drunkenly ranted to for a few minutes – and he knows he shouldn't trust him as much as he feels he does.

"Hah!" Castiel snatches the remote from Dean's hand and pulls back, pressing the button to play an episode of _Doctor Sexy M.D_. He fast-forwards a bit, then laughs and presses play during a scene when Doctor Sexy is making out with a nurse in the elevator.

"I knew it", he says. "I've seen this once. It's very cheesy." He looks at Dean. "You watch this? Now _that's_ gay."

Castiel laughs again, so much that he leans forward and squeezes his eyes shut, giggling uncontrollably.

"I think you had a little too much to drink", says Dean.

Castiel gathers himself, then looks Dean up and down. His thighs are still stuck between Castiel's legs and his shirt has ridden up above his navel.

"And I think you had a little too much to _feel._"

Dean's eyes shoot down to the bulge in his jeans. Never before has he wanted so much to melt and become an inorganic liquid. He doesn't know why he finds it so incredibly inappropriate and embarrassing when he would usually just shrug and grin and hope for the best.

"I think that turned you on", Castiel smirks slyly.

Castiel presses his hips down and forward in one long, slow rocking that almost grinds their groins together, but Castiel is still too far down on the couch. He leans forward until he's hovering over Dean, his hands braced on either side of Dean's head on the armrest.

How many drinks have they had? How long have they been at it? Whatever the amount of drinks and time, it sure has made Castiel relax.

"Dean", Castiel murmurs, lowering himself until his face is just a few inches away. "Do you like me?"

It's such a ridiculous thing to say, Dean scoffs at it.

"Yeah", he says as if it were obvious – and it's not a lie.

"Well that's good", says Castiel. "Because I like you, too."

Dean finds himself smiling and suddenly his hands are on Castiel's hips, pulling them down as he arches up to meet them with his own – and they're much better aligned now. He doesn't fully understand what's happening before he feels Castiel's breath on his lips, so close, so fucking close and it doesn't matter anymore, nothing matters but this, to hell with it, who cares if the guy's a cab driver or if he's a stranger or whatever the fucking problem is, Dean wants this, wants Castiel and his lips and his hips and his hair and-

Castiel pulls away.

When Dean opens his eyes, he's already walking away.

"What- Cas?" Dean sits up, bewildered. "What's wrong?"

Castiel stops halfway to the door. He looks back, the sadness clear in his eyes and even in his voice when he speaks.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I… I can't."

"What? But you-"

"I know. I apologize."

Dean stands and walks towards him slowly.

"You're not alright", he states. "Where are you going?"

"Home."

"You've been drinking. You shouldn't drive."

Castiel doesn't reply, just switches his gaze from Dean to the floor where he keeps it, staring silently.

"Whatever it is, it's okay", says Dean. "Just stay, alright? You can sleep in my bed, I'll take the couch. We'll forget this ever happened."

Castiel nods slowly.

"Bedroom's over there if you want to go to sleep", says Dean. Castiel looks up when he points at the half-open door across the room.

He passes Dean, stopping in front of him to fix him with his piercing eyes.

"Thank you."

He sounds so sincere that Dean doesn't even know what to say in response. Instead he nods, once and with his eyes closed, and when he opens them again, Castiel has left the room.


End file.
